To Put on a Jacket
by autobotjolt101
Summary: Roger and his life after the island.
1. Chapter 1

First of all, I loved the book and have fallen in love with the sadistic character of Roger. Second of all, this is told from the view of another; not one of the boys. No real warnings. I only hope that you read, enjoy, and review

* * *

I looked at the clipboard handed to me by one of the nurses. Papers upon papers stacked and tucked just below the shiny metal clip. Health statistics plagued the top page; informing me of the newly arrived patient's basic information. Roger D. Smith: a schoolboy, no older than age 11. Was a member of the local all-boy choir; was second best based on the papers, could sing an octave just below a C-sharp. This boy seemed like a pretty successful lad; so what was he doing here, of all places?

I sighed and looked at the nurse that still stood by my side. Hazel eyes peered up at me, concern shining just beneath her blonde locks. Her bright red lips were thinned into a straight line. Her hands were gripping the hem of her white skirt, wrinkling the crisply ironed fabric. I peered back and nodded, allowing the nurse to leave and continue her rounds. I turned my back on her and walked down the long hallway. Another hallway branched off and I turned swiftly, making my way to the boy's room.

I opened the door and peered inside. There, sitting on the paper covered cot, was Roger D. Smith. A mop of dark locks were draped delicately a third down his face. A pair of dark emerald eyes stared intently at the floor, sadistic thoughts boiling beneath the angry eyes. His chapped lips moved quietly, mumbling something incoherently and inaudibly. Clammy hands gripped the edge of the cot, almost murderously as he squeezed the cushion tightly; white knuckles screaming at the straining pressure. His fingernails were chewed off bitterly; dirt scrunched up in the remainders of the nail. The door squeaked as I pushed it open a bit more; the sound failed to bring the young boy out of his reverie. Only when I cleared my throat rather loudly, did the dark eyes glance up at me. His eyebrows knit together as he met my gaze; the start of a demented smile spreading across his dark features. I blinked a few times before I finally spoke to the lad.

"Ahem; hullo, I trust that you have made yourself comfortable?"

Roger looked at me, demented smile and all.

"I believe that you will be staying with us for a while, Roger." I said, looking down at the clipboard. My eyes flickered up to look at the boy as I awaited a reply. Though the comment I was waiting for melted away as I watched Roger's morphing face. The small smile soon spread rigidly. His cracked lips unveiled a row of yellowing teeth.

I listened intently to the repeated chant of sadistic bloodlust. I quietly turned back down the hall to the concerned lot of nurses, instructing them to find the jacket and unlock the requested I walked, I left the young Roger to repeat his chant of murder.

_Kill the beast. Cut his throat. Spill his blood._

_Kill the beast. Cut his throat. Spill his blood._

Roger D. Smith: a schoolboy, no older than age 11. Was a member of the local all-boy choir; was second best based on the papers, could sing an octave just below a C-sharp. This boy seemed like a pretty successful lad; so what was he doing here, at St. Mary's Asylum for the Troubled?

The answer: simple.

Roger D. Smith was a psychopathic sadist who was bent on killing the sane.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Writer's Block is the worst.

**Warning: There's blood ahead. The detailing might not be as good as I would like it to be...but it's as good as it's going to get. There are suggestions of the murder from our favorite little savage. No language, just chanting.

_Kill the beast. Slit his throat. Spill his blood.  
Kill the beast. Slit his throat. Spill his blood._

The almost inaudible chant of savagery echoed throughout the white padded room. Young ears and trained walls taught to contain the troubled were the only audience members to bear witness of the sadists show. Dark matted ears dripped into deep emerald eyes; casting a somewhat eerie, yet familiar, darkness around the boy. Tanned hands ripped ferociously desperately within their clothed confinement. Scratched and scabbed knees were brought up to a buckled chest, feeling the cool metal and soft yet tough fabric of the straight jacket. The small slim body rocked back and forth in a rhythmic pattern, listening to the silent echo of the tribal drums.

Small pink lips twitched into a twisted smile, despite the soft muttering from each demented syllable spoken. Thoughts blossomed within his mind, hard thorns pricking each idea and choking off all possible air. The thoughts of heat causing him to sweat as he stalked his prey through fire filled fields, face paint masking his image from his surroundings, and the adrenaline as he was so close to pinning down the helpless fair-haired boy caused a shudder to rush up his back. The thought of the past events drew out a more sinister smirk. And as it would seem, the flash of a memory with a helpless blonde drew out sharp and yellowing canines. It was his one prey that had gotten away, the one boy who changed the outcome of the island conclusion. And now, Roger wanted nothing more than to finish that inevitable outcome.

With a dark cackle, Roger tossed his head back and released the sound of madness. Laughter rang throughout the room and down the short hallway leading to his room. With a final shrill of his haunting childish and demented giggle, a final sentence escaped his smirking lips: "Oh Ralphie-Boy, here comes your dear old friend, Roger!"

* * *

The wooden chair creaked as he moved his body into a more comfortable position. His feet were cramping up as anxiousness grabbed him by the throat. His knuckles started to turn white as he gripped the arm rests. The upper half of his body leaned forward in the chair as he looked ahead to the floor. He watched as blonde hair swayed with each movement. Timid and paranoid grey eyes looked around the room every so often to check for danger; nose crinkling when the body ceased its movements. And as soon as the danger was cleared as paranoia, the blonde would turn back to the small plastic toy in hand: a plump, pink pig.

Eyes narrowed onto the blonde before him; watching eagerly as he unconsciously rose up from his seat. His now cramped hand gripped the back of the chair, dragging the wooden chair across the room. The deafening screech of the wooden legs protested against the linoleum tiles placed on the floor. Finally coming to a halt by the wall, under the window sill of a dying daisy, Roger stood still. His head turning slowly to face the child. Deep green eyes studied and watched; dark smile growing with every rigid breath pumping with adrenaline.

As Roger stood a little ways behind the blonde, he started to unscrew the screws holding the top of the chair frame with his fingers. A masochistic glint in his eye started to shimmer as the faint trickle of crimson started to weave its way down his fingers. His fingernails started to tear, the skin beneath protesting in pain with each movement. Soon, small, deep lacerations tore into him. The tips of his fingers a deep crimson and dripping with blood. And soon enough, the top of the chair was pulled off with the force of desperation, determination, and utter hunger for power. The wood stained with blood as the dark liquid seeped through the grain. Roger looked at the chestnut coloring of the wood, the simple knots rare in the wooden plank. Looking around, Roger made his way slowly to the blonde, the wood dragging delicately across the floor.

"...Kill the beast..."

The blonde twitched at the sudden murmur of words. The deep baritones were dark. The mere words of a monstrous beast or even a savage.

"...Slit his throat..."

The murmuring grew louder. Slowly, the blonde turned; scared grey eyes widening as the girl was too late to dodge Roger.

"...Spill his blood!"


End file.
